Drawing near the train, with the wind beating in his face, Charles raised the Spencer again. Then something happened for which the soldiers were altogether unprepared.
J. O. Hartree ran his hand along the barrel of the Sharps, silently starting a ten-count. Snick! Whump! He heard arrows striking the car. He took a firmer stance beside Turk and finished the count.
"Open it."
The door squealed as it rolled. Morning light flashed on the double-triggered Sharps held by the two shootists. An Arapahoe goggled at the sudden appearance of the railroad men. Hartree's brown eyes sparkled and his pious smile broadened. "Blow them down, Turk."
Because the rear triggers had been cocked, each front trigger was a hair trigger, needing merely a touch to fire the piece. Smoke and noise erupted from the door of the freight car. The Indian rifleman flipped off the bare back of his pony was instantly trampled by the horses of two other Arapahoes, unable to avoid him.
Incredibly, beyond the racing Indians, Hartree saw a bunch of those black nigger cavalrymen, raffish as bandits. The soldiers and their white officer, likewise racing beside the train, shouted for the railroad men to stop shooting; they were directly in the line of fire. Hartree ignored them, passed the hot buffalo gun behind him, and received another. His next shot missed, but it blew off the straw hat of a nigger, who immediately crouched down over his horse.
"You got my marker now," Magee shouted as he galloped beside Charles. "That red bastard almost had me."
Charles shouted back, "Those idiots on the train are going to kill us." He pumped his Spencer up and down over his head. "Hold your fire! That's an order! Hold —"
The shootist in the green embroidered vest snapped off a round to show how much he cared about the order. The Arapahoes, caught between the railroad men and the galloping soldiers, recalculated the odds; the leader motioned for them to drop back. Soon all of them were behind the train, dodging bullets from the troopers on the far side. They returned fire briefly with arrows and guns. One Indian flung his arms up and slid off his pony, blood running down his chest. The others immediately sheared away south, out of danger.
All of it happened in less than two minutes. Charles was furious. His first good chance at avenging Wooden Foot was nearly gone and he hadn't dropped a single Indian. Not one.
"You want us to chase 'em, Lieutenant August?" one of his men yelled.
Charles wanted to answer in the affirmative. But he was required to take charge of the damaged train and any wounded. He presumed there were some. He saw not a single human face in the shot-out windows of the coach.
"No, God damn it, I don't."
Angry that the soldiers might spoil the show, J. O. Hartree said, "Someone yank the cord. Stop the train. I want prisoners." As quickly as it began, all firing stopped, and the train jerked and slowed and jerked again as the brakes took hold.
Charles and his men brought their horses alongside the train, which bristled with painted arrow shafts. As the Rogers locomotive came to a stop, clouds of steam drifted up, mingling with settling dust. Charles watched the green-vested man jump from the freight car and strut forward. One close look at the man's face and Charles knew there'd be trouble.
36
Charles slid his Spencer back in the scabbard and trotted to the freight car. Three more civilians jumped down; a ratty lot. The plump man in the shiny gloves and green satin waistcoat was obviously in charge, and as the moments passed Charles liked his pushy swagger less and less.
"J. O. Hartree," the man said, as though the name should mean something. In the shot-up car, the excited voices of people in shock could be heard. Displeased by the lack of recognition, Hartree added, "Chief of railroad security."
"Lieutenant August, Tenth Cavalry. You beat us to it. We hardly fired a shot." His regret was evident.
"We've been riding the line and laying for the red bastards. You saw what cowards they are."
"You've got that wrong, Mr. Hartree. An old friend once said you have to turn your notions upside down on the Plains. If my detachment loses a man the Army will send another in a month. If the Indians lose a man it takes five or ten years for a boy to grow up to replace him. They're not cowards, just damn careful."
Putting the man down bled off some of Charles's anger. But Hartree didn't like it. "I don't need a lecture from you," he said. A disheveled woman raised herself into one of the broken windows, saw the black soldiers, and sank out of sight with a horrified look on her face. Hartree shielded his eyes against the sun and squinted eastward, through the dust still drifting behind the train.
"Boys, I see at least one of them alive back there. Bring him in. We'll make an example of him."
"What are you talking about?" Charles asked. Hartree ignored him. Magee scowled and punched a dent out of his derby.
The conductor appeared on the coach platform. "We've got a wounded man in here."
Charles said, "Hurt bad?"
"Flesh wound. He's awake."
"Let me check my own first." He'd no sooner said it than Wallis rode into sight at the rear of the train, waving his kepi. "Lieutenant? Toby's down. Arrow in his leg." Charles swore. "One Indian down over here, too."
Hartree said to the redheaded shootist, "Get him." He and the others hurried off.
Charles handed his rein to one of his troopers and stepped up close to Hartree. Hartree's men, meantime, reached an Arapahoe who had fallen near the caboose. The redhead kicked the body, rolled it over, shook his head, and proceeded on toward another Arapahoe, who was crawling on hands and knees, bleeding from a shoulder wound.
The Indian staggered up and tried to run. Redhead caught him and dragged him back. The other two shootists vanished behind the train in search of the other brave.
A couple of men appeared at the blown-out windows. Charles heard some slapping sounds, and an anxious voice. "Wake up, May Belle. You're all right. Don't take on so. Those are just nigger soldiers."
The wounded Arapahoe came lurching toward Charles, pushed by the redhead. Blood poured down the Indian's arm and dripped from his fingers. Dismounted and hurt, the brave looked harmless and ordinary. One of Hartree's men emerged from behind the train carrying an Indian in his arms. "Hurt leg," the man shouted. "Can't walk."
"Drop him right there," Hartree called back. "You're not his goddamn nurse." The man let go, and the Indian screamed when he hit the ground.
"Listen, Hartree," Charles said, "I think we'd better clear up one matter. It's the Army's responsibility to convey prisoners to Fort Harker."
"You don't have a thing to do with it, mister. The scum attacked railroad property." He grabbed the shiny shoulder-length hair of the Arapahoe prisoner and twisted. "The railroad will deal with them." He squatted and wiped his glove on yellowed grass at trackside. "Greasy damn bastards."
Hartree's eyes flicked back and forth between the bleeding prisoner and the Indian lying on his back at the rear of the train. Stroking his mandarin mustache, he suddenly made up his mind.
"This one's in better shape. He goes free after we take care of his friend. I want this boy to see what we do to red men who threaten railroad property. I want him to tell the others. Turk, fetch those picket pins from my valise."
The shootist named Turk scrambled back into the freight car. Charles was beginning to have a very bad feeling. Turk jumped down again with two of the sharp metal pins used to picket horses. Slowly, hoping to attract no attention, Charles wandered back to Magee, who had dismounted.